


Showtime

by seidou



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Acne Riddled Kuroo, American High School Setting, I know that sounds ridiculous but hear me out, M/M, OC!Drama Teacher, Sewing, Slow Burn, Southern Accent Bokuto, Trans Akaashi Keiji, Trans Female Character, drama club au, except Yaku cause it adds to his vibe, lots of weird things i want more of really, they all go by their first name
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 04:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12004578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seidou/pseuds/seidou
Summary: Kenma wants to sew, likereallywants to sew, but is being part of his school’s drama club really worth it? As friends bump heads, relationships fail, and artistic visions clash, it all seems a bit too much. But then again, what did you expect from a drama club?





	Showtime

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I’ve been gone for too long haha
> 
> A major death in my family, breaking up, moving, starting college... it’s been a lot so i hope everyone can forgive me and i hope you all enjoy the things i’ve been working on for the last couple of months! 
> 
> this is the first thing I'm gonna share, and first i'd like to say thanks to my wonderful beta reader for this fic Alexis who also helped me from not tearing my hair out during the pretty long editing process, you're the best.
> 
> Anyways, this fic is a pretty big mash-up of things I like (Kuroo covered in acne, Bokuto with a southern accent, a Kenma that's obsessed with something besides video games, and eccentric drama teachers) so i hope everyone else likes them too! Tried to keep them all in character as possible, but this is not only my first fic really playing around with the Tokyo boys, but also my first fic in a solid 8 months, so i hope you can excuse some OOC-ness (or feel free to tell me about it!) 
> 
> Lastly, you're all the best, and I hope you enjoy the fic <3

Kenma has always enjoyed fashion, maybe not in the way a thirteen year old girl does, but with a decidedly more artistic approach. Sketching designs for outfits he could possibly put together or make has been one of his favorite pastimes for years.

Unfortunately, sketching is about as far as Kenma has ever gotten. His multiple attempts at learning to sew from the internet or books have never proved effective enough in helping him create the ideas he’s hoarded in notebooks for four years. Maybe that’s a testament to his arguably complicated designs, or his natural lazy attitude towards life. Either way, sewing has been at the top of Kenma’s to-do-list for years.

Not that Kenma doesn’t own a sewing machine, he’s had one for years. He remembered begging his mother for one his freshman year of high school, and nearly crying when his aunt sent him one for Christmas that same year. For the next several months he practiced everyday, but the art of sewing proved to be much more complicated then Kenma had anticipated. It was only after several more months of failure that Kenma banished his sewing machine and supplies to collect dust in the corner of his room.

It mocks him everyday too, sitting beside his television, seemingly saying “don't you wish you could use me?” Kenma regularly glares at it, trying to feel less guilty for not taking his passion more seriously. His fingers twitch at the idea of brushing the dust off and plugging it in, but the anxiety always eventually wins; leaving Kenma’s creative mind full of outfits that will never make it past a page in an overflowing sketchbook.

Kenma had made a choice however, and as his red sneakers echo in the empty hallways of his school, he forces himself to brim with resolve. Home Economics will surely cure what ails him.

Home Ec. never seemed like anything Kenma would want to take, too often pinned as a class with no real world value, leaving it primarily filled with girls that wanted a free period with their friends. Kenma hadn’t really even considered it until Shouyou told him about the unit on sewing.

Nearly four whole weeks spent learning to sew, putting the expensive, creamy white machines lining the left most wall of the classroom to good use.

His excitement is what drags Kenma to school nearly thirty minutes early on the first day. He sits in front of the Home Ec. classroom and takes gulping breaths to calm his racing heart, wiping his sweaty hands onto the cotton of his yellow cardigan. Kenma almost feels himself smile a little, realizing he hasn't ever felt this genuinely happy or excited about school in the eleven years he’s attended.

“Are you here to see Mrs. Atkins?” the question propels Kenma nearly ten feet in the air, startling him out of his inner monologue. Kenma’s mouth goes dry, anxiety swelling in this throat because he’s probably just made a huge fool of himself.

The voice is raspy and deep too, which doesn't really help with Kenma’s anxiety. Deep voices usually belong to gargantuan football players that have a habit of pushing Kenma in the hallways. Kenma looks at the stranger regardless, and isn’t surprised to be looking at a somewhat toned chest.

Kenma tilts his head up, following the titled collar of his black shirt, up to his jawline riddled with acne, and all the way to the stranger’s jagged bangs that do a poor job covering one eye and half a blemished forehead.

“I’ll just scoot by, if that’s alright.” The boy says, accompanied with a hand gesture and a lopsided grin. Kenma wordlessly steps aside, watching the boy’s tattered backpack disappear behind the wooden door.

 

Kenma feels like he should leave, or find something better to do now that someone else is in there. Instead, Kenma finds himself back in front of the door, trying to work up the nerve to just walk in, the guy is probably in the class anyways. Kenma spends several minutes volleying the mental argument around in his head, before taking a deep breath and turning the door handle, slowing creaking open the door.

The guy and, who Kenma can only assume to be, Mrs. Atkins, turn towards him almost instantly, the tension in the room clings in the air like sweat. The other student has clear signs of frustration on his face, whether it be towards the teacher or Kenma isn’t clear. Kenma feels his face heat up, and the red hot feeling of embarrassment coils deep in his stomach.

“Uh...” Kenma stands shell shocked, trying hard to think of something to do or say in such an awkward situation. Thankfully the other guy heaves a large sigh, before throwing his backpack over one shoulder, and telling Mrs. Atkins to “think about it” as he brushes past Kenma and out the door.

Kenma feels like an intruder, but Mrs. Atkins just smiles at him, wide and big. Her curly red hair is in a large bun, and she’s wearing an almost comic amount of mismatched jewelry, paired with an ankle length orange dress and purple shawl.

Kind of like a curvy Ms. Frizzle.

“Don't mind him, he's a bit of a grump.” Mrs. Atkins lifts up from her chair, showing her large frame and admirable height. She sashays around her desk to simply lean on the edge as Kenma takes in the sights of the room.

The Home Ec.’s classroom is quite large, one of the largest in the main school building. Situated in an older wing that seems to always be cold, and never used for classes like math or science. There are long tables set up in front of Mrs. Atkins’ desk, facing the windowed back wall. Kenma's eyes quickly pass over a small kitchenette and rolls of fabric before his mouth nearly salivates at the sight of sewing machines lined against the leftmost wall.

His hands itch to play with them.

“So, what is your name?” Mrs. Atkins cuts his ogling short, causing Kenma to blink back into reality. Mrs. Atkins chuckles, and Kenma nervously tells his name.

“Kenma? Hm...” Mrs. Atkins picks up a clipboard and writes on it, motioning him to sit in the front row.

“So, why did you want to get to class so badly that you stood outside the door thirty minutes before the bell?” Mrs. Atkins smiles, calculating underneath a thick veil of kindness.

“Oh, I was..ah-” Kenma's mouth betrays him, and no matter how hard he tries he can’t think of anything to say. His hands leave damp marks on the table.

“Why did you wanna sign up for Home Ec.?” Mrs. Atkins changes her wording, crossing her legs and folding her hands over them.

“Sewing, I guess.” Kenma tries to be nonchalant about his answer, shrugging his shoulders to pass off his poor excuse for indifference.

Mrs. Atkins' however, seems ecstatic about his answer. A large smile fills her face, crinkling her bright brown eyes, “do you sew?”

“I uh,” Kenma once again feels awkward under so much attention, he takes a breather. “I don't know how, but I'd really like to learn.”

“That unit isn't for another month,” Mrs. Atkins hums, rubbing her fingers to her chin in a   comically overdone expression of thinking. Even if Kenma knew he’d have to wait several weeks for any instruction on sewing, it stills pains him to hear. “but how about a trade?”

“Trade?” The words slip out of Kenma's mouth, Mrs. Atkins gives him a wicked grin.

“Come by the auditorium at lunch and we’ll talk.” She stands up at full height, looming over Kenma’s seated frame. Kenma mentally rolls around the pros and cons of agreeing to come; if he doesn't like what she has to say then there’s no real commitment yet, and if the trade is worth it than Kenma can hopefully learn a thing or two. Then again Kenma can’t be certain what his teacher has in mind, but his curiosity gets the better of him. “Deal.”

“Great!” Mrs. Atkins seems pleased, if not a little shocked. She claps her hands together, right as a group of girls come in. “I’ll see you there.”

 

~~~

 

First days are never very interesting, Kenma gets the syllabus for his classes, he sees who he’ll be dealing with for the next semester, and sketches when his teachers allow students to socialize.

The first day of this school year however, is turning out very weird already.

As he predicted, the Home Ec. classroom is mostly girls. They stream in a steady and consistent pace, with ribboned hair and bright smiles for their teacher. No one sits beside Kenma until the bell rings, and everyone has to quickly find their seat. His seatmate turns out to be a quiet and exceedingly pretty girl with silky black hair and no interest in talking, which Kenma is gratuitous for.

Mrs. Atkins is expressive and wild from the beginning, her hands say almost as much as she does. Kenma really isn't sure if the quirky and excitable attitude is all an act or buried authenticity. Either way, she’s almost immediate with the ice breakers, first introducing herself as the drama club supervisor and showing photos of her dog.

Classmates say things about themselves, ranging from hobbies to after school jobs, and Mrs. Atkins sees thrilled with the amount of bubbly and willing people she has at her disposal. Kenma however sits, silent and still, trying very hard to not draw attention to himself.

Introductions to class are the ultimate first impression maker, and Kenma has learned from observation to stay in the background to the best of his abilities. Sticking out either gets you ridiculed, or attracts the unwanted attention of rambunctious and hectic people. Kenma wants no part in any of it, and he barely brings his voice above a whisper to say his name.

He gives no other information, and he feels the class looking at him, all expecting some sort of random fact. He feels his face heat, up and bows his head, fisting his hands under the table, until finally Mrs. Atkins takes some form of pity on Kenma, moving on to the girl beside him.

After talking about things like goals and classroom expectations, Mrs. Atkins gives her final monologue, mostly based around drama club and urging everyone to try and make it to the auditorium at lunch hour. Kenma tries to ignore the look directed at him as he leaves class immediately.

Kenma walks to his second class with his phone in hand, experience leading him through the crowds without being harmed. It's only his junior year, Kenma has to remind himself, he's only on the third act of the nightmarish game of high school.

Second block is a tragedy in every sense, it's the highest level history course, making the class completely seniors. Kenma quickly slides into one of the last available seats, trying his hardest to not look at anyone.

Kenma is good at history, meaning that he enjoys it enough to try in class. Memorizing random facts comes fairly easy to him, and that seems to be what high school history is all about. AP U.S. History is the highest level history course available at his school, and even though he was urged by his counselor to sign up last year, he never thought he'd get in.

Now he sits in the basement level class shivering under his too big cardigan, as the old grumpy teacher tells them about ground rules or something. The teacher hands out a stack of papers, which Kenma takes and passes to the seat behind him. The guy makes a loud whistle, and the girl directly beside Kenma gives him a dirty look.

“Kill me now if I have to sit beside _him_.” The girl stage whispers to her friend in the seat to her right, who snickers loudly behind her hand.

Kenma’s anxiety quickly puts him on the defensive, causing him to create a wall behind his chin length hair. While he may not be able to see them, his mind still plays over the idea that they’re talking about him, and not the obviously obnoxious person directly behind him.

“That's not quite nice.” The thick southern accent startles Kenma, and he looks behind him. The guy looks insane, with huge golden eyes, insane biceps under a gray shirt, and dyed white hair under a red beanie. He looks like a weird mix of stereotypes, none of which is the country boy that his voice originally makes him out to be.

The girl turns to him and makes a disgusted sound. “Shut up, country bumpkin. No one was talking to you.”

“You were talking about me though, which is really rude.” The guy’s voice sounds a bit dejected and whiny. Kenma tries his hardest to crouch in on himself, and simply disappear from earshot of the argument all together. “You shouldn’t talk about people like that, especially when they’re right there.”

“Yeah, whatever.” The girl’s long nails make clicks against the desk as she drums them, and her hair swishes around as she turns to ignore him. Kenma breathes a sigh of relief that they’re not about to argue in the middle of class, especially now that the teacher has begun talking.

Kenma feels a tap on his shoulder, followed by a whisper. “They're just jealous ‘cause they both asked out my girlfriend last year.” He leans back before Kenma can even acknowledge it, but the pride in his voice was not unnoticed.

When they’re given the last five minutes to socialize amongst the class, Kenma feels a tap on his shoulder before the teacher has even fully finished talking.

“I'm Kotarou,” the wild haired boy starts off, he's way too loud. The three girls around them move away as soon as he opens his mouth. “you may have seen me doing cool things, like being the lead role in last years spring play.”

“I never saw the plays.” Kenma says simply, falling into his usual talking pattern that usually doesn't elicit the most response, boring as it is. It's much simpler for him if others do the talking.

The guy lets out a horrific gasp, leaning into Kenma's bubble, “you haven't seen me in any of our plays!?” Kenma can almost make out every pore on his crooked nose with how close he is..

“Uh, no?” Kenma leans back as far as the small desk will allow, trying to reclaim as much of his personal space as possible.

“My girlfriend Keiji is in the plays too! Last couple years she hasn't wanted to, but she joined drama last spring musical and she really enjoys it.” He continues to ramble, before leaning back and nodding his head, almost a little thoughtfully. “If you come and see the fall play you'll surely see her, she's bound to get a part.”

“I uh...I’m going to the orientation at lunch.” Kenma turns away to hide his embarrassment, considering he’s never told a virtual stranger what he was doing before in his entire life. Whatever face Koutarou makes is accompanied by a gasp, before the bell dismisses them to lunch.

Koutarou grabs his bag and pops up out of his seat at an almost alarming rate, running in front of Kenma’s desk and lowering his head. “You should come say hi to me and Keiji then!” His rambunctious voice rings throughout class, drawing the turning of heads and a couple scoffs. Kenma nods his head quickly, trying to look busy with stuffing paper into his backpack while Koutarou loudly whoops and runs out of class.

 

~~~

 

Lunch hours are usually spent in the company of Shouyou, a friend Kenma made after helping him find a class last year. Afterwards Shouyou insisted upon finding Kenma at lunch and sitting with him, eventually resulting in a strong friendship. Shouyou is probably the opposite of Kenma, loud and bubbly, determined and excitable. He really does push Kenma to try new things, and encourages Kenma to do things involving more people.

Shouyou will be proud when Kenma tells him about going to drama orientation, he’ll probably be excited to learn that Kenma is showing someone else his artistic side. Shouyou is the only person yet to know intimate details of Kenma’s designs, and is the only other person who knows about Kenma’s desire to create clothing. If only Kenma was motivated enough to follow through on those desires.

Kenma is sure Shouyou will encourage this, something about coming out of his shell will surely be said tonight through text. Kenma will probably have to leave out how he’s been standing idle outside the auditorium for ten minutes.

Kenma’s hands fiddle with each other, as Kenma tries to will himself to push open the thick metal doors. If he were to tell Shouyou, what would he say about his pathetic, nervous display. Probably something at least a little comforting, like how he can definitely do it if he tries hard enough. There’s an equal chance he’d say something insensitive, as Shouyou and his non-existent verbal filter tend to do.

Kenma makes a little resolve in his stomach, filling up the space that previously felt like vomiting. Kenma would much rather be anywhere else, sketching or playing video games, but he’s already here. He made a deal, and Mrs. Atkins seems like the intimidating type to run after him and rip his head off if he doesn't make good on a promise. That thought doesn't help with Kenma’s anxiety much.

Kenma has just finished creating the seventy-fourth item on the list of torture techniques Mrs. Atkins will use, and which ones he would be willing to undergo, when a large crash from inside the auditorium halts his thoughts. The initial shock nearly makes Kenma jump out of his skin for the second time in less than four hours, and as he regains his composure he can faintly make out a slightly muffled  “goddammit Kou!” from the other side of the door.

Kenma’s instincts quickly read “flight”, his body deciding it better to take his risk with Mrs. Atkins then have glass thrown at him, when the door opens and Kenma hasn't gotten far enough away to make it seem like he wasn't about to enter.

“Excuse me.” A very irritated voice come from behind, forcing Kenma to look at whoever he’s just bothered. Kenma isn’t sure what to expect, but it definitely wasn't such a pretty person. Even though he's clearly annoyed, it really only makes him seem prettier. Kenma can't understand why that makes him even more intimidating.

“Do you need help?” The voice changes, much softer, a bit lower, Kenma realizes too late he's been staring.

This guy is much taller than Kenma, no that Kenma’s height is a great comparison. With short black hair, green eyes that droop tiredly, sharp jaw, and a delicately bony hand currently holding the door open, the guy in front of him can really only be described as gorgeous. Even in his overly large orange hoodie.

“I...uh...I came to-” Kenma tries in vain to explain himself, maybe say how he needs to see Mrs. Atkins, or explain his tardiness, when a familiar scratchy southern accent stops him.

“Keiji! I know I dropped a glass on stage, but I promise it wasn't on purpose!” Kotarou rambles, his hair is somehow wilder, possibly because his hat is nowhere to be found. Kotarou does not seem to acknowledge Kenma's presence, instead giving Keiji a serious pout.

“It’s alright Kou, go get Mr. Johnston in the chemistry lab. Ask for the glass bucket.” Keiji says calmly, and Kenma realizes his mistake very quickly after Kotarou leaves with a “thanks babe!”

This is _Keiji_ , as in the girlfriend Kotarou had been talking about.

Kenma feels his face get hot and his hands grow clammy, he didn't mean to assume, an honest mistake. Was that rude just now? Can she somehow tell? She must be able to with the embarrassed face he’s wearing, she probably hates him now.

“Would you like to come in?” Keiji asks, probably just ignoring Kenma’s mortification. She moves out of the way as means of invitation, and Kenma is able to pull himself together just enough to accept it.

 

The auditorium is large, with seats that descend on a deep slope to meet the front of a stage as old as the school itself. The room is lit entirely by spotlights on the stage, leaving the back barely lit with all the doors closed, and all of it carries a distant smell of mothballs and harsh light. The room is almost an immediate assault on Kenma’s ears, because it seems like everyone is having their own conversation, while also trying to talk over everyone else in the room.

Even if there can be no more than thirty students, the room carries the air of an outdoor freak show, with everyone seemingly trying to capture some attention. There’s singing, dancing, and a very large boy in a button up and bowtie who’s failing to do a cartwheel. The entire scene only becomes more overwhelming the closer Kenma gets to it, as he follows Keiji from relative darkness to blinding light.

“You just missed the real orientation, but not many people came anyways. Most left.” Keiji explains, stopping to pick up a broom from the front of the stage. She hops up and begins to try sweeping copious amounts of glass off the middle of the stage.

Kenma wanders to the far end of the stage, before lifting himself up and sticking close to the velvet curtain on the side. He scans the room for Mrs. Atkins and her large frame, and sees her having another heated discussion with the boy from this morning.

It’s not so much that there’s a heated discussion, more that the boy seems to be ranting while Mrs. Atkins wears a bored expression. Kenma tries to find a way to bypass all the commotion and get to his teacher, which would still leave Kenma interrupting their argument for a second time.

Kenma wills himself to just stay in the darkened corner of the stage, and possibly wait until the end of lunch. He could crawl under the curtain, or try and go back the way he came, but that could also result in unnecessary attention. Being on stage at all could result in that honestly.

Kenma slowly tries to make his way back downstage, huddling close to the thick curtain, when his arm is suddenly grasped and for the fourth time in a day Kenma feels his soul leave his body.

“Hey hey hey! Kenma! I knew you’d make it!” Koutarou’s voice is nearly three times as loud in an echo filled theater, or maybe that’s what they call a stage voice. Either way, it has almost everyone’s attention on the two of them instantly, and Kenma feels close to dying. “I didn’t see you when I was leaving the theater, but I pointed at you, all like ‘hey when’d Kenma get here?’ and Keiji said she had like, shown you inside and stuff and I had walked right by you, so now I feel a little bad.”

Koutarou’s monologue is followed by him nervously grabbing the back of his neck, where Kenma can faintly see black new growth underneath. By now, everyone’s attention has been placed back in their own shenanigans, and Kenma breathes a small sigh of relief.

“Can I talk to Mrs. Atkins?” Kenma stuffs his twitching hands inside his jumper, looking in the general direction he had last seen her, but not seeing anything.

“Oh, sure! Aunt Mavis should be around here somewhere.” Koutarou scratches his head, Kenma notices he’s been jumping from foot to foot for a while, and that one of his beat up Vans isn't correctly tied. “Hey! Aunt Mae!”

“Please stop shouting Kou.” Mrs. Atkins appears from behind the curtain, a purple folder in hand. Koutarou acts surprised at her appearance, even if Mrs. Atkins couldn't sneak up on much of anything. “And I told you to stop calling me that at school.”

“Why? It’s not like anyone doesn't know what your first name is.” The large black haired teen saunters behind her, and Mrs. Atkins hits him in the stomach with her folder.

“Anyways, I’m glad you two are both here. This is Kenma, he’ll be our new costume director.” Mrs. Atkins motions to Kenma with the purple folder, effectively causing all the boy’s jaws to hit the floor.

Kenma barely has time to comprehend what has just been said, let alone think up any sort of response, when Koutarou proceeds to jump in the air, whooping and hollering. Grabbing Kenma’s hands, Koutarou quickly begins spinning them around in circles.

“This is so great!” Koutarou exclaims, quickly bringing the pair to a halt, Kenma can tell everyone is staring at them, with looks ranging from amusement to irritation. “You’re gonna make really good costumes, right?”

At this the entire auditorum near loses it’s mind, all of the teenagers acting as though Kenma has answered a hard kept prayer. Kenma visibly pales and shrinks under the attention, all of the stimulation too fast making his skin crawl and his head spin. All he really wants to do is clear it up, say how he didn’t sign up for all of that responsibility, and that he really doesn't even know how to sew, but he can’t. Not with all the noise, and definitely not after everyone’s acted so glad to hear about it.

Koutarou let’s Kenma’s hands free, effectively taking all of the attention with him. Kenma swallows thickly, watching Koutarou ramble excitedly to Keiji, who meets Kenma’s eyes with healthy skepticism. He quickly decides to turn his back, and go back over to where Mrs. Atkins is yet again getting an earful.

“Hello, my fabulous costume director!” She quickly rips away from her previous conversation, before handing him the purple folder and giving him a large hug.

“I, I don't understand...” Kenma looks down at the folder, opening it to find costume designs for various characters.

“I’m aware you don’t know how to sew Kenma, but I will be teaching you by showing you how to make various parts and alterations to the drama club costumes.” Mrs. Atkins motions to the folder, before turning to the teenage male behind her. “Tetsurou! Come here and show Kenma around!”

“I really can’t..” Kenma tries to say but is cut off by Mrs. Atkins’ hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you for this Kenma, it’s a huge help.” She leaves with a wink and the swish of her dress, before Kenma is left in the far corner with Tetsurou.

“Hey, I know Mrs. Atkins can be sorta...eccentric. I’m sorry about that, by the way, but she really doesn't mean any harm in the whole thing.” Tetsurou says, his voice is calming and smooth, and maybe Kenma would appreciate it if he was even able to comprehend all that’s just happened. “I’m Tetsurou Kuroo, by the way. I’m the stage manager.”

Kenma stares at his shoe, scuffing at the cement floors with the tip of his sneaker. He’s not trying to be rude, just trying not to burst into tears. Tetsurou hums a little, tapping his foot against the stage. After several awkward seconds, Tetsurou extends his hand out.

“What’s that for?” Kenma blinks dumbly at the offered hand, before holding his folder closer to his body. Tetsurou sighs, before taking his hand back.

“It _was_ a handshake, but now I feel like a douche.” Tetsurou chuckles awkwardly, before shrugging. “I know you’re probably embarrassed, but she somehow causes a scene like with everyone, you’ll see.”

“I really hope not.” Kenma huffs, pouting a little at the display of rowdy teenagers. Tetsurou chuckles a bit more genuinely, running his fingers through his hair. “What does a stage manager do?” Kenma tentatively asks, turning a little closer to Tetsurou to gauge his reaction.

Tetsurou preens with the question, almost as if he was expecting it. “Well I’m basically the student director, so I’m in charge of all the background crew. You know, the ones that do the lights and sounds. I also get to sit with Mrs. A at the director’s table, so that’s pretty neat.” Tetsurou slowly fills with pride at his explanation, as if he’s accomplished a great and powerful feat. Kenma simply gives him a level stare.

“That’s pretty lame.” Kenma deadpans, in which Tetsurou responds with a large bawk.

“Well when you need to test the sequins on some dress, and you don’t know the girl on spotlight’s name, we’ll see who’s lame.” Tetsurou challenges childishly, causing Kenma to chuckle out a laugh.

“Sequins wouldn’t be very appropriate for seventeenth century clothing I’m afraid.” Kenma flips through the costume designs for whatever princess story had been decided on, trying to imagine them as elegant pieces of art.

“We’ll see if we actually end up doing that, I’m trying to get Mrs. A to do something bigger. A rendition of _Thoroughly Modern Millie_ , but she’s not exactly buying into it.” Tetsurou sighs, fiddling with the longest piece of hair in his face. “The show is really great, it’s basically about a flapper who wants to fuck her boss.”

“That doesn't sound too appropriate for a school theater.” Kenma chuckles a little, wondering how a school board gets a play like that passed. Tetsurou just shrugs, acting as if the premise is completely PG. “Well the charm’s there, and all the outfits and designs are so overly 1920’s. It’s actually pretty popular for high school drama clubs.”

“I’m not really into plays that much, but early twentieth century fashion is alright.” This was actually a huge lie, Kenma adored anything from 1920’s fashion, a perfect blend of the new age partying lifestyle and the modesty that would be slowly trickled out in the later decades. Kenma would never begin to gush so openly about that aesthetic admiration, not when he wasn’t even sure how much about his interest he can openly share yet.

“Yeah, it’s just that Mrs. A gets stressed too easily with things that require a ton of detail, but what’s the point of theatre if you’re not over the top about all of it?” Tetsurou shrugs, stuffing his hands into his sweatpants. “Anyways, bell’s about to ring. See you later, Costume Master.”

Kenma watches as the stage manager skips past him and to the edge of the curtain, where he takes his hands out of his pockets and counts down from ten on his fingers.

The bells ring, but only after Tetsurou has his last finger up for five seconds. Even then, he still winks and saunters off like he did something insanely cool. Kenma really wonders what he’s gotten himself into.

 

~~~

 

Kenma’s last class period is math, preceded by an open study hall. Both are boring, but at least severely less eventful than how the first half of his day has been spent.

Even still, walking into the cooling New Jersey air reminds him just how fatigued his muscles are, and how desperately Kenma wants to simply go home and take a three hour nap. A little rest and relaxation seems earned after the most hectic first day of Kenma’s public school career.

Not that the sentiment says much, first days are usually boring and uneventful; especially since Kenma works his hardest to make them that way. Getting involved with unruly groups of people, all with their own desires and emotions, is never a good idea. There’s always some fight, that leads to a near civil war between two sides of a friend group. It was all too much drama, and is best left avoided. Unfortunately, Kenma’s roster of unruly and dramatic people had nearly tripled just today alone.

Kenma can’t even wrap his head around being signed up against his will in the first place, considering all of lunch had been a whirlwind of non-stop action that was hard for Kenma to fully comprehend. He really just needs some decompression time, a nice nap, and to be in the safety of his room. If he can just power through his walk home, he’ll be golden.

“Hey! Costume guy!” Kenma snaps out of his thoughts, looking in the direction of very large student waving his arms around, Kenma recognizes his gaudy green bowtie from the auditorium. If Kenma remembers correctly, he’d been trying to do a cartwheel, and failing miserably. A much shorter guy is leaning against the wall beside him, smoking a cigarette. His short brown hair and gentle face play in exact contrast to his black jacket and large boots.

After several seconds of awkwardly standing, Kenma apprehensively begins to approach the pair, trying to weave through the sea of other students making their way to cars or buses. The shorter one quickly stomps out his cigarette, which Kenma perceives to be out of courtesy.

“Hey, I saw you today at lunch! I wasn’t really paying attention, but I heard you’re our new costume guy. That’s pretty neat isn’t it?” The tall one messes with his neatly trimmed hair, before tucking his hands into the pockets of his Columbia jacket. Everything about this guy looks as though he’s stepped out of a home and garden magazine; preppy and polished to the last detail. His wall leaning partner’s tattered black cargo pants and dark green shirt make them total opposites however, which makes Kenma curious as to how they’re close enough to be outside alone.

“Anyways, I’m Lev. I’m a sophomore, but I hear you’re a junior, which is weird ‘cause I assumed you were a freshman. Mainly ‘cause you’d have to be stupid to sign up for costume design, especially with what happened last spring musical.” Kenma wonders vaguely how Lev knows so much about him from just hear-say, and then vaguely about what happened in spring, before he’s even hit with the insults sprinkled throughout Lev’s statement. It’s almost impressive.

“Lev!” The smaller one quickly kicks the back of Lev’s legs, causing the taller’s knees to buckle and for his insulting ramblings to be turned into loud complaining. The short one quickly grabs Kenma’s wrist and ushers him into the art building, leaving Lev to pick himself up and lag behind.

“He’s really insensitive, and it takes a bit to decipher what he means. Don’t worry though, you’ll get better at deciphering everyone’s weird ways of talking.” He lets go of Kenma’s hand and stops in front of the auditorium doors. “But I promise, we all mean well. My name is Yaku, I’m on sound with Shibayama.”

“I’m ah, Kenma Kozume.” Kenma mentally kicks himself a little for the awkward delivery, before Lev catches up and Yaku opens the auditorium door.

“I can probably guess you didn't willingly sign up for costume, Mrs. Atkins can get a bit anal about how the costumes are designed, so no one really wants to anymore.” Yaku holds open the large metal door for Kenma, before allowing it to fall on Lev. “But give it a chance I guess, since you’re not an actor you won’t have as much interaction with all the loud ones.”

“That’s ah, good. I guess.” Kenma looks around the auditorium, trying to see if he remembers any faces, besides Koutarou and Tetsurou laughing at the edge of the stage, no one stands out. Kenma wonders how he’s going to remember so many people.

“I’m sure Tetsurou can show you around and introduce you to everyone if you want. He’s sorta the glue that binds us all together, especially on show weeks when Mrs. Atkins goes into Breakdown Mode.” Kenma follows Yaku down the incline of the aisle and can’t help but think how badly his rough clothing style clashes with his motherly way of speaking. It’s almost cute.

“There’s tons of noise and craziness happening now, but it’ll calm down and we’ll play some ice breakers or something. That’s _usually_ what we do on the first day anyways.” Yaku explains as Kenma once again tries to reign in the overload of stimulation.

“Hey, Costume Master,” Kenma and Yaku turn their heads over to the edge of the stage, where Tetsurou sits with a stack of papers and a highlighter. “Welcome to drama club.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3 
> 
> PS I also have a Tumblr! I used to have one for writing before but i had to delete it, now I'm back on the site pretty regularly, so stop by and say hello!


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